More Harm Than Good

by Andrew Grant

  I was still wondering about her when I opened my front door, twenty minutes later. Was she missing? Had she run away? Had she been the one who’d helped the physiotherapist kill the officers? Had she left the hospital with someone, as the ward clerk had thought? If so, was it Leckie? And had she gone voluntarily? Or under duress? But as soon as I moved into my lounge and looked out over the unfamiliar silhouette of my home city, my focus expanded along with my view of the skyline. I began to reflect on the case as a whole, not just the people who’d been killed in London. What would have happened if Toby Smith, or whatever the diplomat’s son was really called, had drunk the radioactive water? How long would the caesium solution have taken to eat his organs away? How would his father’s government have responded to watching his slow, agonising death?

  Part of me knew I should have felt good about the outcome. I’d saved an innocent kid’s life. And I’d averted a critical threat to the coalition of pro-western nations. But along with the successes, I had to recognise a significant failure. I hadn’t done the one thing I’d been sent to do. Expose the traitor inside MI5. Whether it was Melissa or someone else, who knew what the fallout would be? What kind of havoc had I left them to wreak in the future?

  I was brought back down to earth by my phone. The screen said it was Tim Jones. I answered, but no one spoke for fifteen seconds. I knew someone was there, though. I could hear them breathing at the other end of the line.

  “David?” Jones said, eventually. “Are you there?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Are you?”

  “Are you on your own?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “There’s a problem. It’s about Melissa.”

  “What’s she done?”

  “Done? Nothing. Why would you ask that?”

  “Never mind. Just tell me what’s happening.”

  “She’s disappeared.”

  “I know.”

  “Well, I know where she is.”

  “You do? Where?”

  “With Stan Leckie.”

  I took a moment to think.

  “Why would she go anywhere with Leckie?” I said.

  “She had no choice,” he said. “Leckie snatched her.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He just called me. He told me.”

  “Did you believe him?”

  “Well, yes. Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Did he say where he snatched her from?”

  “St Joseph’s.”

  “When?”

  “About ninety minutes ago.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Can’t you trace his phone?”

  “That’s the first thing I tried. But it didn’t work. It’s somehow spoofing the network into thinking it’s in seventy-two different locations, all at the same time. He’s ex-Box, remember. He knows all the tricks.”

  “What does he want?”

  “Not much. Just two things. You. And me.”

  “Why?”

  “He didn’t spell it out, but it’s pretty clear. He must have been working with al-Aqsaba’a on the theft of the caesium. Maybe more. He must think we’ve pieced it together, and wants to silence us. Even frame us.”

  “And Melissa?”

  “He says if we hand ourselves over to him, he’ll let her go.”

  Was Leckie using Melissa as bait? Or were they working together to lure Jones and me into a trap? The set-up would sound the same, either way. It was impossible to tell without more information.

  “Well, Leckie obviously won’t be letting anyone go,” I said.

  “Obviously,” Jones said. “But we can’t risk calling the police, or our own people, because he must be connected to someone on the inside, and we have no idea who that is.”

  “Agreed.”

  “He’s given us two hours. Then he wants us to meet him at the old workhouse in Luton. Remember the place?”

  “I do.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “At home.”

  “I’m in Croydon. I’ll be on the road in five minutes. Do you want me to come into town and pick you up? We could drive up there together?”

  “No thanks,” I said. “If the rumours about Leckie are true, we might not have two hours. Melissa might not, anyway. So drop whatever you’re doing. Leave now. Go directly to the workhouse. I’ll meet you there.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  One aspect of owning an apartment in the middle of the city and spending most of the year abroad is that you don’t need a car. Normally, that’s an advantage. That morning, however, it was the exact opposite. My ability to travel beyond walking distance and out of the scope of public transport was severely limited, and that needed to change. Quickly. So as soon as Jones had hung up, I made another call.

  “Logistics Support,” a male voice said.

  I pulled open the centre drawer in the desk in my living room, scooped out a letter opener and a collection of other random stationary items, and prised up a tight-fitting panel that had been installed beneath them.

  “I need a vehicle,” I said, after running through the standard identification ritual. “And I need it outside my building in ten minutes, max.”

  “I’m sorry sir, but that’s not possible,” he said.

  I took an ancient Sig Sauer .22 from the shallow space I’d revealed, and jammed it into the pocket of my jeans.

  “Not possible, or not easy?” I said.

  “Not possible,” he said. “I keyed in your details as you told me them, and the system says you’re on secondment. Which means I can’t send a car for you. You’re not supposed to be active.”

  I took out a switchblade, and slipped it into the other pocket.

  “I am active,” I said. “Ignore the computer. I need that car. You’ve now got nine minutes.”

  “I can’t do it, sir,” he said. “I can’t book a car out to you when you’re supposed to be on a different agency’s headcount. The system won’t release an asset under those circumstances.”

  I took a suppressor for my Beretta, and tucked that into my jacket pocket.

  “Book it out to Michael Martin, Major, Royal Marines,” I said. “That’s what we always do in these situations. And please, hurry up.”

  “But you identified yourself as Commander Trevellyan, sir,” he said. “You can’t use someone else’s name, now.”

  I replaced the concealed cover.

  “How old are you, son?” I said. “Don’t you know who Major Martin was?”

  “No, sir,” he said.

  I threw the stationary back in.

  “Key his name in,” I said. “The system’ll accept it. Trust me.”

  I heard computer keys rattling in the background.

  “Oh,” he said. “It worked. Bear with me, please.”

  The keys rattled again, more frantically this time.

  “OK,” he said, after a moment. “The car’s on its way. ETA, it looks like, twelve minutes. Is that all right?”

  “It’ll do,” I said. “And before you go home tonight, go to the library. Find a book about the invasion of Sicily, in World War Two. Read about the role Major Martin played. If you’ve got any future in this business, you’ll enjoy it.”

  “Can’t you just tell me who he was?”

  “No,” I said. “I can’t. Because he didn’t exist.”

  The car that pulled up outside Cromwell Tower eleven minutes later looked just like a standard, silver, 5-series BMW. There was nothing on the outside to suggest it was anything out of the ordinary. But as soon as I touched the accelerator, it was clear that the Navy mechanics had weaved their usual magic under the skin. It had taken the MI5 driver, Pearson, thirty-three minutes to pitch and roll his way from London to Luton in his big Range Rover. I shaved a full six minutes off that time. And I didn’t need a moment to regain my land legs when I arrived, either.

  It stood to reason that Leckie wouldn’t want any random passers-by to wander onto the site
and see what he was up to. He was bound to have the place guarded, or at least kept under observation, so I only allowed myself a single drive by. No one was visible at the main gate, but I saw two men standing just inside the perimeter by the hole in the wall that Pearson had driven through to park. They were wearing security guard uniforms, and they matched the company Leckie used at St Joseph’s. That was smart. It told me I was on the right track, and everyone else to keep out.

  I kept going for another quarter of a mile, then pulled the BMW over to the side of the road and added it to a line of parked cars. Then I called Jones. He didn’t answer straight away, so while his phone was ringing I screwed the suppressor onto the barrel of my Beretta and made sure the switchblade was easily accessible in my pocket.

  “I’m nearly there,” Jones said when he finally picked up. “Traffic was worse than I thought. How are you doing?”

  “Good,” I said. “How long till you’ll arrive?”

  “Twenty minutes? Twenty-five, at the outside.”

  “OK. See you there.”

  I knew the textbook option was to wait for Jones. And if he’d said he was five minutes down the road I probably would have done. But almost half an hour? While there was still the slightest chance Melissa was innocent and in danger, I figured Jones could catch up in his own good time. And if she was neither, there was no point in anyone else getting caught in her web.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The walk back to the hole in the wall would normally have taken around five minutes, but that day it took me ten. Not because I dawdled. But because I didn’t stay on the pavement. I only followed it as far as the rear corner of the wall. Then I checked for cameras. Or sensors. Or anyone watching. The coast seemed to be clear, so I took a moment to find suitable hand and foot holds in the weathered stone surface and pulled myself up high enough to peer over to the other side.

  There was no one in sight, so I slid over the top of the wall and dropped down behind a rough stack of rustic, reclaimed bricks. They’d have been worth something in a buoyant economy, but as things stood, it looked like no one could even be bothered to steal them.

  The patch of scrubby ground between where I’d landed and the heap of rubble I’d seen last time was clear, so I drew my Beretta and crossed the open space. I got to the far side, unnoticed. I knew that if I skirted round to the right of the mound, I had a chance of moving deeper into the workhouse’s grounds without encountering anyone. If I’d just been there for covert surveillance, that’s what I’d have done. But standing back and watching wasn’t on the agenda, this time. I was there to get Melissa out, and whether that meant rescuing her or arresting her, I couldn’t afford anyone blocking my exit route. Or raising an alarm. Or calling in reinforcements. In fact, in the circumstances, an early look at the opposition could be beneficial. It could tell me what kind of organisation I was facing. And if I could find someone who was prepared to spill a few beans, a lot more besides.

  I moved round to the left of the mound and, as expected, I saw the two security guards. They didn’t see me, though. They were looking in completely the wrong direction. I guess they were expecting me to approach them from the street, because I closed to within ten feet before either one of them reacted. And by then, it was far too late.

  Sometimes the best way to loosen a person’s tongue is to draw things out for as long as possible. Put them off balance. Disorient them. Twist their perception of the situation so much they end up thinking that talking’s their own idea.

  Other times I just rely on brute force and ignorance.

  I raised the Beretta and shot the first guy right between the eyes. Blood and bone fragments showered the side of his friend’s head as he turned to see what was happening. Then I stepped closer to the first guy’s crumpled body and fired another shot into his skull.

  “Is Leckie here?” I said.

  The guy who was still alive turned to face me. The scarlet spatter stood out vividly against his suddenly pale skin, and even such a gentle movement sent it dribbling down towards his chin.

  “What?” he said.

  “Stan Leckie,” I said. “Is he here?”

  “I don’t know who that is.”

  “The guy from the hospital. St Joseph’s.”

  “Oh. Yes. He is. He hired us. He brought us here.”

  “Is there a girl with him?”

  He gave another nod, and I noticed his pupils were growing wider by the second.

  “Where are they?” I said.

  The guy stuck out his arm and pointed to the area at the back of the main building. That’s what I’d feared, but my heart sank nonetheless.

  “How many other people are with you?” I said.

  The guy looked blank, and didn’t respond in any way.

  “There’s you, this dead guy, the guy who hired you, and a girl,” I said. “How many others are here? Answer in words this time.”

  “None,” he said finally, in a surprisingly low, gravely voice. “We were told to guard the gate.”

  “What about the other gates?”

  “There’s only one other gate. It used to be the main entrance. It’s blocked now. And there’s no one on it. Are you called Trevellyan?”

  “I am.”

  “I was told to say, he’s expecting you. The guy from the hospital. And he thought you’d come in this way.”

  “What were you supposed to do about that?”

  “Stop you. And take you to him. He said he was putting on a show, specially for you to watch.”

  I thought of the three holes punched in the solid stone wall, and wondered if this guy had been on the gate that day, too.

  “How generous of him,” I said. “Only, I’m afraid there’s bad news. The show’s going to be canceled.”

  “It is?” he said.

  “It is,” I said, raising the Beretta again. “Which means your gate keeping services are no longer required.”

  Chapter Forty

  I made my way across the parking area towards the gap between the back of the main building and the old workhouse asylum. It looked like only one car had been there recently, based on the tyre tracks in the soft ground. One car, and one other vehicle. Something wide. And heavy. And that rode on caterpillar tracks.

  I retraced my steps, looped back around the hill of rubble, and found my way to the passageway that Melissa had used as shelter from the sniper. That should have given me a view through to the main building, in theory. But in practice, it didn’t. The far end was blocked by something. A mobile crane. One that had seen better days. Its maroon bodywork was dull and dented, and all the windows in its cab were broken. It was certainly in bad shape cosmetically, but I couldn’t tell what state its mechanical parts were in. All I could see was that its boom was extended at a sharp angle. Whether anything was attached to it was a whole other question.

  Approaching the crane from the passageway was out of the question, so I pulled back again and worked my way round to the route Pearson and I had taken to reach the west wing of the main building. Common sense told me I’d be no use to anyone with a volley of bullets inside me, but the delay this detour caused was agony. It felt like it would have been quicker to crawl across the Sahara Desert. The only saving grace was that the security guard I’d spoken to seemed to have been telling the truth, and I didn’t encounter anyone else lurking around the far boundary of the grounds.

  I slipped into the west wing through the same entrance I’d used last time, and wasted no time in leaving the room and crossing the hallway. The inside of the building smelled worse than before, and the door at the bottom of the stairs - which I hoped would lead to the main part of the building - was very reluctant to open. When it finally gave way the air quality didn’t improve, but I stepped through anyway and found myself at the start of a long, straight, bleak corridor. I turned to my left and made straight for where I hoped the entrance to the central block would be. I kept going until I reached a doorway. It led to a hallway that was identical to the o
ne I’d come from, so I crossed my fingers and took it. I could see daylight to my left, so I followed it to the remains of a window, trying to ignore the uneven black stains on the floor and fresh, satanic graffiti on all four walls.

  Another line of anaemic bushes gave me a degree of cover as I made my way along the outside of the building, parallel to where I’d been before. This time, though, a view of the battered crane had replaced the informant and his motorbike. For a moment I wondered whether he’d really approached Leckie, who’d staged his murder in front of our eyes so he’d look innocent. Or whether the whole episode was a stunt from the beginning, to distract us from Leckie’s real goal. And then such hypothetical thoughts were pushed away. But not by me, deliberately. By the sound of breathing. It was human. Heavy. And close.

  I continued past a patch where the plant cover thinned alarmingly, and kept one eye firmly on the crane. And I was encouraged by what I saw. For two reasons. There was no sign of anyone in the cab. And nothing lethal was attached to the heavy cable that was dangling from its jib.

  The breathing grew louder the closer I crept to the end of the wall. I paused for a moment, to bring my own respiration under control. Then I stood up straight. Raised my Beretta. Stepped around the corner. And came face to face with Melissa.

  She was standing with her back to the wall. Her arms were stretched out on both sides, at shoulder height. Her wrists were held by crude iron shackles that stuck out from the stonework. There was a vacant pair of shackles to her left, between us. And to her right, the line of three craters whose previous occupants had been pulped by a swinging mass of steel.

  There was only one question in my mind. Was she trapped there, herself? Or was she there to trap me?